


somewhere outside of Barstow.

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: murder was the case that they gave me. [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Gore, Murderers, Sexual Content, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a month and a half since he saw Castiel last, since they met up in an abandoned warehouse in Chicago.  Castiel had already had their kill prepared when he got there, suspended from the ceiling, bound with duct tape around the ankles and wrists, with an additional piece slapped across their mouth.  Dean has cataloged every memory of that night, from the feeling of warm blood pouring over his hands to the feeling of cold, damp concrete digging into his back.</p><p>The thought of killing on his own does nothing anymore.  Whenever he thinks about blood and screaming, Castiel is there beside him, face decorated with an unhinged grin and streaks of gore.  </p><p>The man has ruined him.  And it's terrifying.  But not terrifying enough for him to turn the Impala around and point it back to safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere outside of Barstow.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracestiel/gifts), [SkippyMcVy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkippyMcVy/gifts).



> so I got a burst of inspiration for this today and well, here we are. fair warning: this is a little more graphic than **paint this town red** , so please keep that in mind. I believe I will be writing a final piece for this series at some point, so stay tuned for that!
> 
> title inspired by the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. this is dedicated to my lovely Abby, gracestiel for requesting a sequel, and to all you lovely readers. <3

“So Sarah called me yesterday.” 

Dean's hands are still covered in dead man's blood when Sam speaks up. There's a headless vampire lying at his feet and Dean boots it away from him while he wipes his machete off on his already blood-sodden jeans. 

“Oh yeah?” He remembers the girl; she'd been involved in a case they worked a few months back and she had definitely been pretty, fresh faced with long brown hair and stunning brown eyes and Sam had _definitely_ been stuck on her. “What about?” 

“We've kinda been talking,” Sam says, wiping off his own machete as well, “and she's in the area for an auction. I mean, it isn't really a huge deal but we don't really have anything urgent on the radar...” He trails off and shrugs, broad shoulders nearly reaching his ears. 

“So what you're saying is you wanna go get some action.” Dean gives the vamp's body one last hard kick out of spite (stupid thing was an absolute pain in the ass to track down) before he starts leading the way out of the dilapidated house the bloodsucker had called taken up residence in. Sam mutters something under his breath but there's a blush high on his cheekbones and for just a few seconds, he looks like a kid again, all easy-faced and bright eyes.

“Sounds fine by me Sammy,” Dean says, slinging an arm around Sam's shoulder, trying not to think about the fact that he practically has to stand on his tiptoes to do it. “You ain't taking Baby though. I'll drop you off, come get you in a few days, whenever you're tuckered out. It'll be like high school all over again.” Dean snickers and Sam shoves him away, covering his eyes as he ducks through the front door. There's a thin layer of clouds over the mid-morning sun but after being inside the blackened house for so long, it's almost unbearably bright outside. 

“What are you gonna do?” Sam asks and to any ordinary onlooker, it would sound like a casual query. But even with his squinting eyes, Dean can read the look on Sam's face like a book. Sam is looking at him like you'd cautiously examine a dog who had snapped at you once, long ago. There's just a hint of wariness, hidden deep in his eyes and Dean doesn't like the look of it. Not one bit. 

Before the wariness can become more prominent, he puts on his best shit-eating grin and shrugs, makes a remark about finding the nearest nudie bar and not leaving for a few days. It seems to do the trick; Sam rolls his eyes and throws back his best exasperated smile and the tension between them vanishes as quickly as it arrived. 

But the fact that it exists in the first place scares the hell out of Dean.

***

Apparently, him and Sam have very different definitions of the term “in the area.” Dean had been expecting a quick drive, maybe an hour at max. In actuality, they end up going across the border, from Nevada into California and by the time they reach the small, vaguely hippie-ish town where the auction is being held, it's five hours later and it looks like Sam is about to vibrate right out of his skin. His knee is bouncing up and down, the movement reverberating through the seat and he's gnawed on the corner of his lip so hard that Dean can see a drop of blood welling up underneath the skin.

Dean would tell him to quit it, but that would make him a hypocrite, because he's vibrating too. But it's not from nerves, not quite at least; it's from the _urge_ thrumming through him, the urge that he knows he'll be able to satisfy in only a few hours. 

He drops Sam off in front of the auction house, waves back at Sarah (who has gotten even more gorgeous, way to go Sammy) and then he's peeling out of the parking lot. He pulls into the next gas station he sees and when he digs his cell phone out of his pocket, his fingers are shaking just slightly. He dials the number from memory and waits, hoping that he won't get the creepy automated voice that usually comes after five rings. 

Instead, he's met with a voice that's just as creepy, but at least it's _alive._

“Why hello Dean,” Cas says. There's a strange undercurrent to the words, like Castiel is holding back giggles but Dean is mostly used to it by now. 

“Where are you?” Dean asks and he hates how goddamn needy he sounds, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I mean, are you busy? Sam's occupied for a few days. Thought we could meet up.” 

“How _is_ Sammy?” 

“He's fine,” Dean says shortly. He hates the way Castiel says his brother's name, like he's thinking of toying with him the way he toys with the men and women he tears apart. Dean doesn't know if he's serious, or if he does it just to piss him off. He doesn't know a whole lot about Cas, actually. He knows that he likes hunting with the guy and he certainly likes fucking the guy, but he sure as hell doesn't trust him, especially not with Sammy. 

“Sorry,” Cas says, sounding the furthest thing from apologetic. “To answer your question, I'm in someplace called Barstow and I am _bored._ ”

“Have the drugs started kicking in yet?” The joke slips unbidden from his mouth and, unsurprisingly, he's met with complete silence. He can't help but mentally kick himself; Castiel has probably always been too busy being a complete psychopath to have ever watched any of Johnny Depp's filmography. 

“Look, I'm an hour away from there,” he says, turning the car back on. “You gonna stick around?” 

“Of course,” Cas replies, practically _cooing._ “It's been too long.” He gives Dean the name of the motel he's staying in and then Dean is hitting the road, ignoring the speed limit, hands drumming against the steering wheel. 

It's been a month and a half since he saw Castiel last, since they met up in an abandoned warehouse in Chicago. Castiel had already had their kill prepared when he got there, suspended from the ceiling, bound with duct tape around the ankles and wrists, with an additional piece slapped across their mouth. Dean has cataloged every memory of that night, from the feeling of warm blood pouring over his hands to the feeling of cold, damp concrete digging into his back.

The thought of killing on his own does nothing anymore. Whenever he thinks about blood and screaming, Castiel is there beside him, face decorated with an unhinged grin and streaks of gore. 

The man has ruined him. And it's terrifying. But not terrifying enough for him to turn the Impala around and point it back to safety.

***

Dean reaches the motel in fifty-four minutes. Castiel's beige sedan is parked at the end of the row. It's the most boring car he's ever seen and Dean slides the Impala into the nearest empty space, wary of how damn conspicuous Baby looks compared to everything else in the parking lot.

Castiel is in room fourteen and Dean has just raised his fist to knock when the door flies open and Castiel's hand darts out, seizing the front of his shirt like a pair of talons. He yanks Dean inside and kicks the door shut and Dean hardly has time to suck in a breath before Castiel is shoving him up against the wall. Dean thinks he feels the drywall give slightly underneath his back but it wouldn't be the first time they've completely destroyed a room so instead, he pulls Castiel in closer and licks into his mouth. Like always, Castiel tastes like blood and by the time Cas steps away, eyes bright and grin wide, Dean can taste blood in his own mouth as well. 

“So I think I've found us a gift,” Cas says, wiping off the back of his mouth. He's in his typical uniform, an ill-fitting black suit, but his trench coat and jacket are nowhere to be found and his tie is loosened. If if weren't for the rabid look in his eyes, he would look normal, like a man getting home from work and slipping into something a little more comfortable. 

But Castiel is the furthest thing from normal. And maybe that's why Dean keeps coming back for more. 

“Who?” Dean asks. 

“I'll show you,” he says quietly but then he starts undoing his shirt, tearing at the buttons with seemingly little regard for if they go flying across the room. “Later. I've been bored, Dean. _Very_ bored.” 

“I know the feeling,” Dean manages to say but the words trail off at the end. Castiel's skin has never been perfect; his body is littered with scars of all ages and sizes, scars with stories Dean has never asked for (and that he doesn't really want to hear). But the wound on his shoulder is relatively new, based on its pink tinge and the way it is still set apart from the surrounding skin. He takes a step forward and even in the dim light of the room, he can recognize the indentation of individual teeth in Castiel's pale skin. It isn't a very deep wound, but it's a bite mark nonetheless and based on how it has a distinct ragged edge to it, Dean has a feeling it isn't a love bite. 

“Where did that come from?” Dean asks and he isn't surprised when Castiel's deranged chuckle is the first thing out of the other man's mouth. 

“Where do you think?” he purrs and then he's invading Dean's space, tearing at the belt on his jeans and shoving his jacket to the floor and an hour later, when Cas starts chuckling again, there are more bite marks riddling his shoulders and his chest and Dean's teeth hurt from pressing against Castiel's skin. 

“It's been far too long,” Castiel sighs, but it is a sound neither wistful or happy; it sounds more like the noise of an animal who has just devoured a meal. He's unashamedly naked, his fingers idly twirling a knife that had been sitting on the bedside table and Dean is not alarmed by either the sigh or the knife. He simply nods and gets up, his body one long line of aching muscles. 

“You said you'd found us a present,” he says, rummaging through his bag until he finds a vial of hand sanitizer. It isn't the best anti-septic in the world, but he has deep gouges from Castiel's nails running down his arms and if they get infected, Sam is bound to have all sorts of questions that'll be all sorts of awkward to answer.

“I did!” Castiel slides off the bed as well, smooth as a snake and takes the container of sanitizer out of Dean's hands. “I think you'll love her. And I know where she'll be in an hour.” He squeezes out a glob of the clear, viscous liquid and then, without warning, rubs the entire glob onto the long, bright red scratches decorating Dean's skin. 

“Okay,” Dean says and he steadfastly doesn't hiss, even though it feels like the sanitizer is wiggling its way underneath his skin and blazing a trail of fire through every nerve in his arm.

***

Castiel drives. The inside of his car is nearly spotless; there's no garbage on the floors, hardly any dirt, not even an air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. It looks like it was just purchased from the dealer. But it doesn't possess that new car smell; to most people, it would probably smell like nothing at all but Dean can still detect just a hint of blood and death, lingering in the strangely stale air. Dean is sure that if he got down and looked close enough, he'd be able to see bits of blood still clinging to the floor mats, or maybe to the inside of the trunk.

That smell wasn't there the last time Dean was in the car. Like Castiel's business man persona, the car is a facade and, if the bite mark on his arm and the scent of blood in the air are any indications, those masks seem to be getting more and more threadbare with each passing day. 

Dean knows he should worry more about that, worry about the fact that Castiel seems to, slowly but surely, be slipping off the rails that he's already barely clinging to. But when the promise of a kill is so close, when his mouth is practically watering and his hands are shaking, he can't linger on the topic. He'll deal with it later, when he can think again and when his hands are drenched rather than trembling. 

Their destination is apparently a shopping mall. It's a fairly decent size, with some big-box stores as anchors on either end of the two story structure and even though the sun has gone down and it's getting fairly late, the place is still fairly crowded with consumers. Castiel leads the way to a table on the edge of the food court and simply waits, his hands clasped on the table, business man mask reaching up only to his eyes. 

Dean has seen less predatory eyes on demons. 

“There,” he says lowly after a few moments, gesturing his head in the direction they'd come. Dean hears her before he sees her; even above the din of the mall, he can hear a woman talking loudly, her voice screechy and grating. Dean traces the voice back to a brunette woman talking on her cell phone, striding by them in business casual clothes, smartphone glued to her ear. She takes a seat a few tables away, sets her shopping bags at her feet and continues to talk, so loud that Dean doesn't even have to strain to hear her conversation. 

“Yeah honey... yeah, I'll bring that home too... yeah, I promise... no, I'm at the mall, really... I'll be home soon... don't say that, I'm in public-”

“That's her?” Dean asks and across from him, Castiel nods rapidly, his enthusiasm almost spilling out of his skin. 

“That's her.” He leans over so that his mouth is almost level with Dean's ear and whispers, “she's so _loud_.” Dean can't refute that fact, but nothing about the situation screams safe, or even a good idea. Sure, the place might not be the Mall of America, but Dean is willing to bet that the place has security cameras everywhere, keeping a close watch on all the people who pass through. And besides that, the woman obviously has someone who'll miss her if she disappears without so much as a trace, someone who will kick up a fuss and get the police on the case and the whole thing just makes alarm bells go off in Dean's head. 

“No,” Dean says and suddenly, Castiel's fingers are closing around Dean's wrist, gripping like claws that could rend him apart. Dean doesn't move, but only because they are surrounded by people on all sides; if they'd been alone, he thinks he would have lashed forward and broken Castiel's nose with his hand, just like Cas had snapped his all those months ago when they'd first met. 

“Why the fuck not?” Cas growls, his fingers gripping so hard that Dean can feel his bones shifting underneath the skin. “I picked her for _you_ , Dean.”

“And you didn't think,” Dean growls back, moving his foot underneath the table so that the heel of his boot is pressing down hard against Castiel's toes through his thin shoes. “You didn't think about how the person on the other end of the phone would react if she went missing, did you?” Castiel stays silent but his eyes never leave Dean's face and Dean leans in a little closer, so close that he could probably kiss the other man if he wanted to. 

He doesn't want to. 

“You're smarter than this, Cas,” Dean says, aware that the woman's inane chatter is still continuing in the background. With that, he pulls away and pushes back his chair, getting to his feet. But he doesn't dare walk away, not yet; sure, they may be surrounded by witnesses on all sides, but Dean doesn't like how Castiel is still staring at him, his face a thundercloud of rage and primal instinct. Dean has this feeling that if he turns his back for even a second, Castiel won't hesitate to rip his throat open, to unleash a geyser of Dean's blood onto the waxed floor of the mall.

Finally, Castiel stands up as well, teeth bared in some twisted semblance of a grin and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. It looks like a casual action, a disarming one but Dean knows like he knows his own name that Castiel has his strange silver stake in one of those pockets and a smaller gutting knife in the other. 

“Well then, Dean,” he says, hissing Dean's name like a snake, “why don't _you_ find us someone then?” 

“Fine,” Dean says, turning on his heel, his hands in his jacket pockets, brushing over the outline of where his own knife is tucked into an interior pocket. He passes the woman's table on the way out of the food court and he can't help but take a second to look at her. She's wearing quite a bit of makeup around her eyes and bright red lipstick and all Dean can think is that tonight, she'll be able to take off that makeup, because she'll be alive. 

He wonders if she has any idea how lucky she is.

***

This time, Dean drives. It feels bizarre, driving a vehicle that isn't the Impala, but he quickly adjusts. He doesn't exactly have a destination in mind; the kind of place he's looking for won't have a webpage or anything. It might be in the phone book, but that's time consuming and hit or miss. So he simply drives, turning down narrow side streets with cracked asphalt until he's on the edge of town and the profitable businesses and souvenir shops have started to bleed away.

That's when he sees it. 

It kind of looks like the Roadhouse; it has the same sort of rough around the edges vibe. There are a few flickering neon signs in the windows, advertising types of beer and the vehicles parked along the street all look like they could use a good servicing. None of the other buildings on the dead end street have lights on. 

It's perfect. 

Dean gets out without saying a word to Castiel; he's suffering from tunnel vision, solely focused on the door to the shitty bar. This is the environment he thrives in, the nameless motels and dilapidated bars, the places most productive members of society ignore the existence of. He walks through the door and swallows a deep breath of cigarette smoke; apparently the owners haven't gotten the “no-smoking” memo yet. The place is dimly lit and many of the tables are so deeply enshrouded by shadows that Dean can't make out any of the features of the people sitting there. There's a television mounted above the bar, playing a baseball game and although there are a few people sitting on the stools in front of the bar counter, Dean's eyes immediately zero in on one man in particular. 

“There,” he says out of the corner of his mouth to Castiel, who has stepped up beside him. Dean is prepared for Castiel to say no to him, for the other man to stalk out the door the way he'd come, but the man simply nods, that grin of his leeching through again. 

“I forgive you,” he says simply and Dean bites back the wave of anger the words make swell in his stomach. He walks over to the bar, takes a seat on a stool that creaks ominously and after he's ordered a beer for him and Cas, he uses his peripheral vision to get a better look at the target he's selected. 

Dean has seen men like him all across the country, drowning their sorrows in alcohol, men who may have been big in high school but are all washed up like pieces of driftwood now. This particular man is physically staring up at the television, but his mind doesn't seem to be present behind his watery blue eyes. He has bleach blond hair that is obviously growing out, shot through with streaks of black and straggling down the back of his neck. It doesn't look like he's shaved in a few weeks and he isn't wearing a wedding ring on his sun-beaten, red hands. 

Now _this_ is what Dean calls a perfect target. 

There's a beer sitting in front of the man and Dean has a feeling he's already had more than a few, based on the way he sways every so often. Dean sips his own drink slowly and listens as the man occasionally mumbles under his breath to himself, his eyes still locked on the television. No one else in the bar seems particularly interested in the guy; those who are half-hidden at the tables and booths seem engrossed in their own problems and everyone else sitting at the bar itself are absolutely focused on the baseball game. 

Dean is done with waiting; not just because enough time has passed since they entered the bar for their presence to not seem suspicious, but because his hands are trembling so hard that he doesn't know how much longer he _can_ wait. The phantom taste of blood is burning in his throat and every time he swallows, he has to hold back a desperate moan. 

It's time. 

He sends Castiel, who is sitting two stools down from him, a text message underneath the bar and stares pointedly at the man until he checks the ancient looking flip phone in his pocket. Once he's read the text, he looks up and quickly flashes a vicious grin at Dean, punctuated with a lick of his lips. With that, Dean stands up, making as if he's on his way to the (probably filthy) bathroom at the back and on his way past the man's stool, Dean kicks it, just slightly. It's enough; the man sways more violently before he tumbles off the stool, falling with all the grace of a newborn octopus, his limbs flailing. He lands hard on his hip and while he's still mumbling, blinking owlishly as he gazes around the room, Dean hauls the man back to his feet by his bicep. 

“Whoa buddy, looks like you've had a bit much,” Dean says, chuckling as he slings the man's arm over his shoulder. “Do you know him?” he asks, turning to the bartender, who seems just as engrossed in the ball game as his patrons. 

“Never seen him before,” he says, shrugging once. 

“Alright, well, I'll get him out of here before he pukes all over your floor.” The bartender nods at him once and Dean half-pulls, half-drags the blonde man towards the door and once they're outside, he props the guy up against the side of Castiel's sedan and pulls on a pair of leather gloves from the pocket of his jacket. 

“Do you have a car?” he asks and although the man's mumbled response is indecipherable, the keys he takes out of the pocket of his jacket are more than enough answer. 

“Who are you?” This time, the words are easier to understand and Dean puts on his best shit-eating grin, plucking the keys out of the man's pocket with his gloved hands. The keychain on them says Toyota and the only car made by that company in the lot is an old blue truck with rust eating away above the wheel wells and the door handles. 

“Just a concerned citizen, making sure you get home safe,” Dean says, easily dragging the man towards his truck. “Where do you live?” 

“Not from here. Just passing through,” he mumbles and Dean's grin isn't even a facade this time. There's lucky and then there's _lucky_ and this target is definitely a case of the latter. The passenger door of his truck is unlocked and Dean tosses him inside, recoiling at the scent inside the cab. It's like fast food that's been sitting in the sun too long and Dean is very thankful that he'll only be in the truck for a few minutes. He slams the door of the truck just as the door of the bar opens and Castiel comes striding out, practically _bouncing_ with each step. 

“Can you lead the way?” Dean asks and Castiel nods once before he's pushing Dean against the side of the truck and slamming his mouth against Dean's. Apparently, Dean is back in his good books. 

“It's not far,” he says once he's pulled away, punctuating the end of his words with a low chuckle. “You'll stop shaking soon.” He nips at the corner of Dean's mouth once more before he crosses the parking lot to his own car, twirling his keys around his finger. Dean slides into the driver's seat of the truck, which is also littered with cigarette butts in addition to the fast food wrappers, and follows Cas once he's pulled out of the parking lot. 

Castiel leads Dean out of the city, down roads that are largely deserted at this time of night. After twenty minutes or so, a large building appears out of the darkness on the right side of the road, set back a little bit from the pavement, looking completely and utterly abandoned. It's here that Castiel turns off and Dean follows, the truck bouncing over the uneven ground as they drive around the back of the building. As far as Dean can tell, it's a unused warehouse and he can't help but snort a little bit; warehouses seem to be Castiel's locale of choice, at least when it comes to killing. 

The man has fallen asleep in the passenger seat and he only stirs a little when Dean hauls him out of the truck. By now, the irresistible urge has sank down into his stomach and he's tempted, _so_ tempted to throw caution to the wind and kill the man here, to rip his guts open and feel his steaming hot blood gush over his hands. But he just barely manages to swallow that urge down and he pulls the man towards a door that Castiel has yanked open. 

For a few moments, the inside of the warehouse is nothing but pure and absolute darkness and Dean can't help but think that a demon or a werewolf is about to appear out of the blackness and tear them all to shreds. Maybe that would be a blessing in disguise. But then there's a click and the flickering glow of a candle appears a few feet in front of them. Castiel lights another one moments after and by the time he moves onto the third one, Dean realizes that he's using the Zippo Dean previously carried in his pocket. 

He doesn't know when Cas grabbed it. But the fact that he did, and the fact that Dean never noticed, makes his stomach shake in a way that isn't related to the bloodthirst ravaging through his body. 

“I wanted to be prepared ahead of time,” Castiel says, answering Dean's unvoiced question as he lights a final candle and sets it on the floor before he puts the Zippo back in his pocket. The room they're in is fairly small and it looks like it might have been a break room for employees at some point; there's a table pushed up against one wall, beside a stand with a rusty looking microwave on it. But aside from that, the room has been cleaned out of all but Castiel's supplies, neatly spread out on the floor. 

A coil of rough yellow rope, a few more knives and a blue tarp. These are the tools of their trade. 

“Where am I?” the blonde man asks, words slurred and thick with alcohol. The noise that comes from Castiel on the other side of the room doesn't sound human in the least and he slides his trench coat off, folding it neatly and setting it on the table so that it's relatively out of the way. His facade is gone and the animal underneath is completely exposed in Castiel's blazing blue eyes and the snarl that his mouth has become.

“That's not important,” Cas sing-songs and as Dean drapes his own jacket over the trench coat, Castiel lunges, holding his belt in his hands. It wraps around the man's neck with lightning quick speed and despite his intoxication, he does put up a fight. His fingers scrabble over the pitted leather of the belt and he gasps for breath, feet kicking out in front of him, pattering against Dean's shins. 

The kicks don't hurt but on some fundamental level, they piss Dean off. So he does what seems like an appropriate punishment. He pulls the man's boots off, throws them to the side and, as Castiel loosens up on the belt slightly, he slashes the back of the man's ankles, severing both of his Achille's tendons in one swift moment. 

The man doesn't scream, but that's only because he doesn't have enough breath to.

***

It's a long, long night.

Maybe it's because of the alcohol coursing through his system, but the man holds up remarkably well, in comparison to some of Dean's other victims. He only says _please_ half a dozen times; he doesn't offer them money or sex or anything else in exchange for them stopping. Maybe he thinks what they're doing to him is a blessing. Maybe he thinks he deserves it. Dean doesn't know. He has a hard thinking about anything other than the blood gushing through his hands and the way Castiel is peering at him over the man's shoulder, his wild, uninhibited eyes seeming to glow in the flickering light of the room. 

By the time the man finally sucks in one last burbling, shuddering breath before breathing no more, the candles are starting to gutter out on the floor. The man's throat is bruised purple and yellow, decorated with streaks of blood from where the buckle had cut at his skin. His already-dark jeans appear black in the dim light, soaked through with the blood that had poured from the numerous deep wounds on his stomach. Some people died after only a few knife wounds, perishing from the shock alone, but the blonde man had performed very well; Dean can see hints of wet, slimy organs gleaming through the wide gashes on the man's stomach. 

Dean's actually impressed, he has to admit. 

They leave the man's body in the same spot, hands and feet tied with the yellow rope, suspended from a hook in the low ceiling. The tarp underneath him is positively slippery with blood and Dean has to walk carefully in order to not fall. When they exit the building through the back door, the edge of the horizon is starting to bleed from navy blue to a lighter shade. On the other side of the warehouse, the road seems to be a little busier; Dean can hear a few cars going by, followed by the deeper rumble of a tractor trailer. 

There's blood crusted underneath his fingertips and he hasn't slept in nearly twenty-four hours. His body still aches from head to toe and he's borderline exhausted. 

But he feels absolutely fucking _great_. 

Although the sun is quickly coming up, although Castiel's hotel room is only a half hour drive away, when Cas shoves him back against the grille of the dead man's truck, Dean doesn't pull away. He seizes Castiel by the lapels of his suit jacket and yanks him into a bruising kiss, using his tongue to chase after the intermingled tastes of blood and metal. When Castiel's hands come up to grip his face, pressing bruises into his skull, all Dean can smell is metal and rust and when he feels like his lungs are going to explode, he pulls away and presses his mouth against Castiel's hands, sucking his fingers into his mouth, running his tongue along the lines in his palms. The man's eyes catch the rising sun and he looks positively _feral._

When Dean has finished garnishing Castiel's hands with his mouth, the man growls and easily spins Dean around, pinning his hips against the grille. Dean knows how dangerous the position is, sandwiched between an unmovable hunk of metal and a monster, but he doesn't try to move or get away. Rather, when he hears Castiel's spit-slick hands tears at the button and zip on his trousers, Dean works on getting his own jeans down to his ankles. 

It is the very antithesis of tender. It's more aches to add to Dean's body, more bruises to add to his hips and ribs. There are gouges along the roof of the truck and a streak of blood from one of his nails, which had snapped completely off. When Castiel steps away, zipping himself back into his pants, Dean's legs shake but it isn't the horrible shaking from earlier that night, when he felt like he was going to vibrate out of his own skin. This is a shaking he gladly welcomes. 

He can hardly stand upright and the exhaustion is starting to leech into his bones and his mind. But even with that, he knows that he can't just leave his blood on the man's truck; he can't risk it. 

So he returns inside, cuts off part of the blood-soaked tarp, and stuffs it into the man's gas tank. Castiel is leaning against the door of his car but before Dean can ask, he pulls Dean's Zippo from his pocket and tosses it towards him. 

When Dean takes one final glance back over his shoulder, the truck is already engulfed in flames.

***

He's never slept beside Castiel before; on the previous occasions they met up, Dean had his own hotel room he could retreat to, his own bed. But it's touching six o'clock in the morning now and quite frankly, Dean doesn't trust himself to drive to another hotel, not after the exciting night he's had. And Castiel doesn't seem to care, based on the grin he flashes Dean once they arrive back at the motel, sliding into the parking spot beside Baby.

Dean falls onto the bed, still fully dressed except for his boots, the comforting weight of his knife pressed against his ribcage. He falls asleep on his back, his head on a pillow that smells like sweat and blood, the sound of Castiel showering slowly fading away. 

When he wakes up, he's lying on his stomach, his jacket is gone and there's a heavy weight on his back and a sharp sting in his shoulder. He reacts instantly, using his hands to push himself upwards and knock the weight away. When he spins around, Castiel is kneeling at the edge of the bed, naked except for his plain white boxers, holding Dean's knife in his hands. The point of it glistens red in the orange glow of the bedside lamp and based on the fact that he can feel something trickling down his back, Dean has a sickening suspicion that it's his blood decorating the blade. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, using one hand to grope at where his shoulder is still stinging. Something has been carved into his skin; his fingertips trace three fairly deep, connected lines and when he pictures the image in his head, he realizes it's the letter C. 

“Signing you,” Cas says, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “Or at least, initialing you. It was supposed to be a surprise.” 

“Oh,” Dean says, trying his best to disguise the fact that his stomach is rolling so harshly that he feels like he might throw up. “Sorry.” Castiel grins at him and drags his tongue along the point of the knife before he throws it back to the ground. 

“It's fine. I'll just finish it next time.” He stretches out on his stomach and when Dean does the same, Cas' fingers trace over the wound, pressing hard enough for more blood to trickle down Dean's back.

“Goodnight Dean,” he says, eyes falling closed and even though the clock on the bedside table says that it's nine in the morning, Dean says goodnight as well.

He watches the numbers on the clock change, watches and waits, listens as Castiel's breathing goes deep and even. When he's been like that for forty minutes, Dean slowly starts moving, shifting an inch at a time, silently sliding off the bed and onto the floor. He grabs his things and although Castiel doesn't seem to have realized that he's moved, he waits until he's slipped out the door before he shoves his feet into his boots. 

He's still exhausted; he might be even more so now, actually, with only two hours of sleep under his belt. But despite the fact that his eyelids feel like lead and his mind feels like a cloud of fog, he drives past every small motel, past every truck stop where he might be able to park and get some shut eye. He drives until he gets to the sleepy little town that he'd dropped Sam off in. He stocks up on beer and food at the nearest gas station and he checks into the only hotel in the place. It's more expensive than he would like, but beggers can't be choosers. 

He doesn't leave the room until Sam calls him the next day and while he waits for Sam to say his goodbyes in front of the auction house, Sarah's arms wrapped tight around his neck, Dean keeps his eyes peeled for any beige sedans coming down the road. Thankfully, there's no sign of any and when Sam manages to extract himself from Sarah, he slides into the passenger seat with a grin reaching all the way to his cheekbones and not a single complaint about the fact that Dean has his Styx cassette playing. 

“So, how was your vacation?” he asks his younger brother and Sam just looks so damn happy that Dean kind of wants to tousle his hair a little bit, if just for the reaction he'd get. 

“It was great,” Sam says simply and before Dean can get in a jab about not kissing and telling, Sam spins the question back at him. “How was yours?” 

If Dean had chosen not to go back to Castiel's hotel room, he thinks that he could have told Sam that he had a great time and be truthful about it. But, as he turns the music up even more, remembering the look in Castiel's feral blue eyes and feeling the continuing throb of the C carved into his shoulder, Dean does what he does best, second only to killing.

He lies. 

“It was great, Sammy. Really great.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
